The Trinity
by Miss Crossbow
Summary: A year passed since he was moved and imprisoned in the Castillo de la Mota, and Cesare Borgia does not seem the man he used to be. Chains will indeed prove no sufficient utensil to hold him. A dark one-shot about Cesare's musings. R&R please!


**A/N: 'Ey, sup gangsters? Been a bloody long time since I threw out a proper one-shot. This one is particularly meaningful to me, and I'm sure you'll be able to decipher why. This being about Cesare and Cesare alone, I tried to get into his head as much as possible. Through his remembrance, I had mentioned only those of his enemies who I thought were the most striking to him. Hence, Ezio receives an ignore card (partly because I wish to exclude Assassin's Creed as much as possible, and partly because I think Ezio was not the fiercest enemy he had to face. Thus, even in Assassin's Creed, it wasn't Ezio's merit that ultimately brought Cesare to his downfall, but the Orsini's and della Rovere's yearly schemed treachery). Nevertheless, I dedicate this piece to all of those who admire and behold the wondrous force that was Cesare Borgia, and share my feelings of his downright undeservedly gained infamy. To this, I exclaim: Viva il Principe! You are not yet forgotten, my dear Duke. :)**

**Thus, I hope you enjoy! Leave a review if you so please!**

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Silence. The choirs of nothingness, once the choirs of angels so pure, echo in his ears, bury in his skull. His angels, his demons in disguise, had long abandoned him, he ponders. Never was a man to trust demons, it is veritable.

Silence. The heavy bracelets of frozen steel seize his bare wrists. It didn't matter. He stopped feeling his hands long ago. What use of them, moreover? They bring judgment upon nothing no more.

Silence. His skin is dry, bones and soul quaking for a warm, gratifying bath, to wash away this filth that had endowed him so deliberately. Do baths win back awards, shower in renown, wash away the pain and regain one's ranks, though? If they do, one bath is all this fallen son of God longs for.

_Silence. Silence. Why is it always so peaceful?!_

His chained legs he stretches, but with caution. Lord knows what type of vermin might lurk this opaque, forsaken basin of disease and dust. Notwithstanding the pain caused by the sudden loss for breath, he satisfies his limbs, and moves his arms beside his body. Was it quite still a body? A corpse would be more appropriate a term. Skin debarred, one too many scars on his wondrously aged face, not long ago a face of a youngster, in the utter prime of his valor.

Was he becoming sick again, he wondered? Or was this all the play of a weakened, rotten heart, annihilated by very those it laid trust unto? One in a situation such as his may be indulged with both answers. An incredibly vile satire, he remembers, but still, a satire no less.

He loses his breath again. An elusive interruption of vertigo strikes him to crouch out of his leisure. His head falls back as he murmurs a prayer; a prayer of a cursed, shattered soul, unaware as to how many more knives to the heart can it take.

Definitely is he sick again, he deducts after some minutes, or an hour perhaps. Or two. With malice, he discovers a rat just beside his steady leg. Repulsed, he twitches away with infinite disgust. Too many rats had surrounded him already, another one would be fatal.

His vision suddenly becomes blurred due to the lack of flickers; a frightful motion is bestowed for him to observe. He sees the rat take refuge somewhere amongst the corners, so distant, yet in such blissful vicinity. The evil thing...

But ah, he smiles, feeling his face pierce him back; there is no such thing as good or evil. Only instinct and one's own interest. But what, he inquires, is left beside instinct, if one ever loses one's ambitious drive?

Innocence. Innocence and instinct will remain, he declares to himself, proud of ignorance that still did not cease to plague him.

To declare requires speaking...He used to give audience to so many ambassadors and envoys and councilors, preaching only chosen words with a tongue so graceful and elegant. Always would they be charmed, even if he was laying to them the date of their very demise.

A lurid grin takes the best of him as he chuckles; what does his voice sound like again? Truly, no man had ever sunken this low. To forget the color of one's own voice...Guliano must be hosting numerous celebrations in the honor of his becoming the Pontiff.

It must be glorious, bearing the title of Pope; the chosen one must feel incredibly supercilious for his own, diligent virtue, whether gained through judgement truthful or judgment of coin.

Coin is one hostile belligerent, unfamiliar to fatigue or ambit. Men should not depend on coin, nor arms, but on affiance between one another, unless they are each to his own. And the poverty of faith may become the quickest downfall. And he would know this, certainly, as men were slain by his own noble sword due to this indisputable truth.

His memory is still in good service to him; ah, Sinigaglia, the one of the many citadels whose streets he had stained with blood. But not just any blood did he paint them with, but the purest fluid one treacherous bastard could provide.

Lofty was their circle whence they tried to smear France's eyes, and overthrow him. But ha, Fortuna favors them not! A lack of confidence tempts these men, the jackals to all recognized as humane and just. Their constellations were clear, yet they attacked not. A slipped opportunity, no better than a scrap of an eaten apple. He assures that he would've done better.

What is he to fathom out of all this, in the end? That humans cannot be trusted? That honest work is indeed treated as poorly as one that is lousy? Reluctant is he to admit that they could not even recognize him anymore. Not that they knew him at all, but it all surfaces abroad in the endless flow of his reminiscences.

But yet again, a disturbance occurs, forcing him to leave his musings once more.

The guard's steps resound throughout the corridor, as he is ruthless to swagger unscrupulously as he marches in front of the cell.

"You've a visit. He afforded himself a minute or two. Behave courteously or else."

The guard walks away, as he sits in his maddening silence. He shall be seen, shallow and stripped to his very bones. And by a man to whom he always spoke with such avarice and mockery. But never did he fail to deliver gratitude, in one way or another.

The layers of his soul fall like rain, as one innocent, akin powerful word, doubtfully makes its way to his tired ear.

"...Cesare?"

Tears are not to be compensated with. Yet, heated streams forcefully descend down his cheeks, else the pain threatens to cherish him with vicious stings alone. He turns his head away from the bars.

Silence. Neither speaks, neither perceives a need to. Only innocence and instinct still remain.

"The Trinity abandons you not, Sire. I had conceived a plan, a brilliant plan, through which you will breathe our air freely again," Micheletto finally encourages to inform, hastily, but excitedly likewise.

He is lukewarm, feeling that an answer is demanded should he wish the regress of the silence.

"I do not wish to be ransomed," he strains. Ah, there is his voice, trapped deep down inside of his throat, concealed of use and greedy of indelicacy.

"And so you will not be," Micheletto replies with a shrewd smile, which fades quickly as the remorseless guard calls for himself.

"I must go now. May the Father of Understanding Guide You, Sire."

He listens to the retreating footsteps, which are like a splendid, gorgeous melody, one of the many he loved to listen to when he was a child. And a young man.

_May the Devil himself come for me, and guide me straight into the lairs of hell, show me the origin of hatred and the putrid hollows of the Eternal Fire._

Youth escaped him, the foul butterfly. Fluttered straight out of his firm fist and cast upon his hair a shade of early, grey snow.

Vast is renown, infamy even more so. Indeed, he still has the accommodation of the Trinity; Silence, Innocence and Instinct, all of them to soothe the likes of he.

And again, Cesare Borgia twitches; accursed be these chains. They are not designed to hold him, but fracture him thoroughly, aiming to bewitch him and piss on all that he'd labored for. A thing he must not permit. Not he, not the Duke, not the seraph, not Fortuna's most beloved gentleman.

Not the man who was forced to bear insults and feign sincere smiles his whole life. Not the man who was forbidden to show weakness.

Not yet. Not in this lifetime, nor any other.

_Take it all away. I will rise again, or I will burn. All of this, take it away. Thrive me, grant me my sword, my armies. I will rise again. I will fight. My heart belongs on the bloodiest and most igneous battlefield. There shall it be buried. Not here. Take it all away. _

_I am still here. Bring me an end to this suffocating nightmare. Release me, let me fight anew._

_Take it all away._


End file.
